◎ 卡洛琳·凯泽Kizer诗2首 (阅读1452次)
回收的赛茉莉
自你一去不返，
我身心俱碎，一片片
一块块都流落河水。
然后两条大腿爬到岸边，
沿着尘封的牛车辙流连，毫无目的。
一时间，它们化作一座粗陋的路边神祠：
两条大腿之间支起了一张小台子，
上面有一支落满浮尘的蜡烛、杂草、还有一个
野花的链环，由孩子和老妇满心虔诚地供奉。
我的双膝上挂着镀锡的三角铁片
用来治救各种癔病和杂症。
我永远地死于河中，后来
水流中的躯干泡胀了，漂浮着，
随着漩涡转动、挂着木头或石头；
四周泛起白色的泡沫，再将它推下去，
它左旋右转，一路踉跄，终于撞到岸上。
一个白发苍苍的老头，在河边拾荒，
他已经捡到了我的双臂，并妥善安置，
因为他明白无论何物总有用得着的时候。
他发现了我的躯干，称之为独木舟，
以我的双臂作桨，就这样
他在漂满浮渣的水上把我划来划去。
一旦鲶鱼啃我的手指，他便将它们兜起，
将这具可以一再使用的鱼饵视若神明。
这独木舟，虽不精美但也朴实耐用！
拖在后面的黑血尾流
吸引着鲤鱼和黄鳝，还有河龟，
喝了我美味的鲜血全都晕晕乎乎，真容易捕获。
一个小伙子在灯心草丛中发现我的头颅，
将它放在一个干燥的石头上。
他用一块贝壳细心地为我梳头，
并在它前面放上一些小供品，
鸟儿和老鼠当仁不让地趁夜偷走，
就好像是我照单全收。
当微风回旋着穿过我的嘴和空洞的窟窿，
我的肺腔发出叹息、僵硬的舌头开始嘟哝。
一圈小蜗牛绕在我喉咙周围，
好似一条神圣的项链。
我的头戴着水草的冠冕，
村民们很快就来向它叩问神谕，
占卜者找到了职业，诠释我的叹息，
他们的纸草经卷越积越多。
这期间，孩童们发现了我的双眼，
用作弹子、玩一种简单的游戏，
——直到某个孩子的漂亮姐姐见到后抢走，
我的眼珠终于有幸镶进她新婚的凤冠。
可怜的女孩！当她未来的夫君瞥了她一眼，
这么多眼珠，他惊恐万状地画着十字，
立即遁逃，跌跌绊绊地穿过
那成为遗产的草坪。
我的心脏和其他器官如何？
还有我爱你最深的
那条神圣肉缝？
它们都被一个渔夫一网捞起，
在深夜抛进了一个猪圈。
但在月色下它们发出骇人的闪亮，母猪
惊吓得你踩我踏，纷纷逃窜。
而那渔夫的老婆，生有十三个小孩，
对什么圣洁之爱毫无敬意，
她用耙子一搂，残存的我便进了粪肥堆。
后来，在不同地方、以各自的功能，
圣坛、神谕、内脏、独木舟以及桨楫
全都知晓了你重新降临的谣传。
圣坛雀跃着跑向独木舟，
蜡烛油一路滴落还烧焦了一些青草。
手臂跳起、插入腋窝处，盲目的手带着被啃过的指甲
因为那凄厉的哀号而一路摸索
来到那座婚床，从新娘弃置一边的凤冠上
抢走了那双不幸的眼珠，
将它们塞进原处。哦，这是多么灿烂的一天！
空洞的躯壳在河岸上跳舞。
腹中空空，它在呼唤、在四野搜寻
那些在阳光下蒸散炙烤的内脏器官，
却再也无法找到。
不过你宏伟的声音很快就在九天下回响起
我的名字！——所有那些私下的称呼
联系着不同的器官和地点，全都深深地爱过你。
它们隐匿在草堆和粪堆中骚动不安。
狂热的老太太们追索她们失去的圣坛，
占卜者追随我的头颅、他们丧失的职业，
顽皮的孩童们一心想着那神奇的弹子，
还有逃跑的新郎和那渔夫的十三个小孩，
他们一起大喊“奇迹啊！”在一片震天的喧嚣中，
你我两具身体的重逢犹如一声晴天霹雳
响彻那肮脏的田野、回绕在一个角落，
折断了篱笆，惊动了其瘦骨如柴的牛羊。
我们抱成一团、躺在那堆粪肥堆上，
所有相爱的器官立刻交合，
旁观者欢呼着、祈祷着、掩着眼睛，
然后得体地离去、忙着自己的事务。
此时此刻，又是月明之夜；我们沐浴着河水、
再次通体喷香、身心健康。
我们并肩跪在沙滩上；
喃喃低语地彼此崇拜。
但是内脏仍然记得发酵的干草、
粪肥舒缓的异味、牲口骚味、
还有激情、血腥的生产、
还有出生、再生和腐烂。
按：赛茉莉Semele是古希腊神话中忒拜城的奠基者杀龙勇士卡德摩斯Cadmus之女。
Semele Recycled
Carolyn Kizer
After you left me forever,
I was broken into pieces,
and all the pieces flung into the river.
Then the legs crawled ashore
and aimlessly wandered the dusty cow-track.
They became, for a while, a simple roadside shrine:
A tiny table set up between the thighs
held a dusty candle, weed, and fieldflower chains
placed reverently there by children and old women.
My knees were hung with tin triangular medals
to cure all forms of hysterical disease.
After I died forever in the river,
my torso floated, bloated in the stream,
catching on logs or stones among the eddies.
White water foamed around it, then dislodged it;
after a whirlwind trip, it bumped ashore.
A grizzled old man who scavenged along the banks
had already rescued my arms and put them by,
knowing everything has its uses, sooner or later.
When he found my torso, he called it his canoe,
and, using my arms as paddles,
he rowed me up and down the scummy river.
When catfish nibbled my fingers, he scooped them up
and blessed his re-usable bait.
Clumsy but serviceable, that canoe!
The trail of blood that was its wake
attracted the carp and eels, and the river turtle,
easily landed, dazed by my tasty red.
A young lad found my head among the rushes
and placed it on a dry stone.
He carefully combed my hair with a bit of shell
and set small offerings before it
which the birds and rats obligingly stole at night,
so it seemed I ate.
And the breeze wound through my mouth and empty sockets
So my lungs would sigh and my dead tongue mutter.
Attached to my throat like a sacred necklace
was a circle of small snails.
Soon the villagers came to consult my oracular head
with its waterweed crown.
Seers found occupation, interpreting sighs,
and their papyrus rolls accumulated.
Meanwhile, young boys retrieved my eyes
they used for marbles in a simple game
—till somebody's pretty sister snatched at them
and set them, for luck, in her bridal diadem.
Poor girl! When her future groom caught sight of her,
all eyes, he crossed himself in horror,
and stumbled away in haste
through her dowered meadows.
What then of my heart and organs,
my sacred slit
which loved you best of all?
They were caught in a fisherman's net
and tossed at night into a pen for swine.
But they shone so by moonlight that the sows stampeded,
trampled each other in fear, to get away.
And the fisherman's wife, who had 13 living children
and was contemptuous of holy love,
raked the rest of me onto the compost heap.
Then in their various places and helpful functions,
the alter, oracle, offal, canoe, and oars
learned the wild rumor of your return.
The alter leapt up and ran to the canoe,
scattering candle grease and wilted grasses.
Arms sprang to their sockets, blind hands with nibbled nails
groped their way, aided by loud lamentation,
to the bed of the bride, snatched up those unlucky eyes
from her discarded veil and diadem,
and rammed them home. O what a bright day it was!
This empty body danced on the river bank.
Hollow, it called and searched among the fields
for those parts that steamed and simmered in the sun,
and never would have found them.
But then your great voice rang out under the skies
my name! –and all those private names
for the parts and places that had loved you best.
And they stirred in their nest of hay and dung.
The distraught old ladies chasing their lost altar,
and the seers pursuing my skull, their lost employment,
and the tumbling boys, who wanted the magic marbles,
and the runaway groom, and the fisherman's 13 children
set up such a clamor with their cries of “Miracle!”
that our two bodies met like a thunderclap
in mid-day—right at the corner of that wretched field
with its broken fenceposts and startled, skinny cattle.
We fell in a heap on the compost heap
and all our loving parts made love at once,
while the bystanders cheered and prayed and hid their eyes
and then went decently about their business.
And here it is, moonlight again; we've bathed in the river
and are sweet and wholesome once more.
We kneel side by side in the sand;
we worship each other in whispers.
But the inner parts remember fermenting hay,
the comfortable odor of dung, the animal incense,
and passion, its bloody labor,
its birth and rebirth and decay.
孩子
孩子到底有什么益处？
他们只会令你心碎。
你最珍贵的希望由他承载
而他却绝不会有所成就。
你做牛做马给予他你从未享有的机会
他却满脸不屑地抛弃。
他们不会在你的老年将你赡养。
他们甚至连家书也没有一封。
他们不会跟随你的足迹。
他们不会避开你的覆辙。
你无法挽救他们于不幸。
当然，因为他们从来不听。
还记得你当年盯着
你的父亲或爷爷的双唇，
恳求他们讲那古老的故事：
“再来一个！再讲一遍！
‘从前’那个时候怎样？”
我们也有好听的故事：
有趣、有益、令人伤心。
算了吧。不如写下来送给朋友。
你的朋友们，你和她们倒有一个不成文的协议：
不要探问我孩子的事情，我也不问你这类事宜。
还记得么？我们当年时常交换婴儿照片，
我们彼此炫耀可爱的童言，我们……
算了吧。
把他们的剪贴簿扔掉吧，还有壁橱里那支生锈的横笛，
还有那些脏兮兮的芭蕾舞鞋。
把他们稚拙的情人卡撕掉吧。
撕掉蜡笔涂抹的卡片，一张别留，别管什么“妈妈我爱你”。
他们并不想我们收藏这些记忆：
他们对此只会感到难为情，
这些遗迹说明那份爱只是依赖，
那橘黄的蜡笔没敢写出“我恨你”。
不要记着那些生日，就像他们忘了你的生日一样。
也许因为他们从未完成任何一件事情，
没写过一本书、没上完一所学校，
他们的政策残酷无情又感情脆弱：
某个毫无道德的怪物
曾以轻松的微笑摧毁百万人的性命，
曾令我们的青春岁月充满恐惧，
如今却是他们眼中的英雄。
通过他们这些反光墙，他的微笑和善仁慈。
他们毫无历史，所以他们不相信历史：
斯大林并没作恶多端。
二战中并没发生种族屠杀。
罗斯福只会信口雌黄。
但最最糟糕的是：
他们拒不相信我们曾经有过信念；
他们拒不相信我们有过理想。
他们拒不相信我们有过激情
或者我们今天仍有激情！
算了吧。别跟自己过不去了。
你还有一点生活可以自救。
把婚离了。保持体型。
将二十年前为他们放弃了的事业重新拾起。
回到他们辍学的校园，注册几门课程：
学习《静心入门》、选修《冥想》、修读《悔过自新》。
还记得令我们羡慕不已的老朋友么？
她们的美丽光彩夺目，
她们拒不生儿育女，
绝不为此牺牲自己的事业；
她们拒不接受家庭的杂乱与陷阱，
而我们却在日常家务中滚爬，
为风疹与收入而烦心——
你最近可曾见到过她们？
她们的交谈已经不再妙趣横生。
她们沉迷于宠物小狗难以自拔，
它在波斯地毯上撒尿，
它在她们的床罩上呕泄。
她们闻不到冲鼻子的牲口味；
它一刻不歇的吼叫对她们毫无影响。
说实话，那整套屋子
都令人掩鼻不及！
更别提她们对它咿呀儿语、叫着各种乳名，
哪还谈什么屈原李白曹雪芹。
看她们肉麻的抚弄已令你发昏；
还要听那一声声嗲叫“心肝宝贝”。
Children
What good are children anyhow?
They only break your heart.
The one that bore your fondest hopes
will never amount to anything.
The one you slaved to give the chances you never had
rejects them with contempt.
They won't take care of you in your old age.
They don't even write home.
They don't follow in your footsteps.
They don't avoid your mistakes.
It's impossible to save them from pain.
And of course they never listen.
Remember how you hung on the lips
of your father or grandfather,
Begging for old stories:
"Again! Tell it again!
What was it like 'in olden times'?"
We have good stories too:
funny, instructive, pathetic.
Forget it. Write them down for your friends.
Your friends, with whom you have that unspoken pact:
Don't ask me about my children, and I won't inquire of yours.
Remember how we used to exchange infant pictures?
How we boasted of cute sayings? How we….
Forget it.
Put away those scrapbooks, with the rusted flute in the closet,
with the soiled ballet-slippers.
Tear up the clumsy Valentines.
Tear up every crayoned scrap that says, "I love you, Mama."
They don't want us to keep these mementoes:
they find them embarrassing,
These relics of dependent love,
The orange crayon that didn't dare write, "I hate you."
Forget their birthdays, as they forget yours.
Perhaps because they never finish anything,
not a book, not a school,
Their politics are cruel and sentimental:
Some monster of depravity
who destroyed millions with his smile
Who shadowed our youth with terror,
is a hero to them.
Now he smiles benignly from their walls.
Because they are historyless, they don't believe in history:
Stalin wasn't so bad.
The Holocaust didn't really happen.
Roosevelt was a phony.
But the worst of it is:
they don't believe we ever believed;
They don't believe we ever had ideals.
They don't believe that we were ever poor.
They don't believe that we were passionate
—or that we are passionate today!
Forget it. Don't torture yourself.
You still have some life to salvage.
Get divorced. Go on a diet.
Take up the career you dropped for them twenty years ago.
Go back to the schools they deserted, and sign up for courses:
Study Tranquility 101; take Meditation; enroll for Renewal.
Remember those older friends we used to envy,
brilliant and glittering with beauty,
Who refused to have children,
not about to sacrifice their careers;
Who refused the mess, the entrapment,
as we toiled over chores and homework,
worried about measles and money—
Have you seen them lately?
They no longer converse in sparkling cadenzas.
They obsessed with their little dog
who piddles on the Oriental rug,
who throw up on the bedspread.
They don't notice his bad breath;
His incessant yapping doesn't seem to disturb them.
To be honest about it,
the whole apartment smells!
And the way they babble to him in pet names
instead of talk of Milton, Chaucer, Dante.
The way they caress him make you fairly ill;
the way they call him, "Baby."
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